


On The Streets

by sleep



Series: What do you mean I have to "follow the prompt"? [6]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Drug Abuse, M/M, Multi, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 22:32:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3954286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleep/pseuds/sleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift lives on the streets, and turns to prostitution to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Streets

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for this prompt: http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/13205.html?thread=15314069#t15314069  
> I decided to mostly just write thought the scenarios provided.   
> A lot of bad things happening to Drift. Contains non-con, dub-con, and drug abuse.  
> I hope you enjoy!

Your quality of life on Cybertron could be determined by a myriad of things, among them your caste, your alt-mode, your profession, where you lived, your connections, your wealth, your luck, and countless other small things. But there was no doubt about one thing; living on the street with no money and an empty fuel tank, alone and with nowhere and no one to go to, meant you had been handed a pretty unfortunate lot in life.   
  
And as someone who lived on the street – drifting between dark back-alleys and even darker abandoned builders – who had no money, friends, connections, or future, Drift was truly in a bad spot. A spot that in no way was improved by the tall mech standing in front of him – the other mech cornering him was not improving the situation either – telling him in exquisite detail _exactly_ what he would do to Drift and his 'pretty face' unless he stopped struggling and opened his panel right. This. _Instant.  
  
_ So with optics filled with fear and shaking uncontrollably, Drift opened his valve-panel, and tried to make himself as _accessible_ as possible, sitting down on the cold, dirty, ground.   
  
Drift made his best effort to not struggle, but while he _mostly_ managed to keep his shaking and urge to try and run away in check, there was nothing he managed to do to avoid the whimpers and cries of pain escaping his mouth as the mech brutally and without preparation fragged him.  
  
Unfortunately for Drift, the mech in question disliked his 'incessant whining,' so he asked his companion to please 'silence the little slut.' The other mech did so, using the method that he must have deemed the most suitable; he yanked Drift's head backwards, and shoved his spike down his throat, and then he thrust into him in rhythm with the other mech.   
  
Drift tried his best to just go limp and let it happen, but he was painfully aware of the spikes ravaging him, especially since he retched with every motion of the spike in his mouth, and when it was finally over, he felt sick to his fuel tanks. The mechs left him a mess – no one would come after them for an incident against some homeless nobody, and they knew it – their transfluid spilled all over him, down his throat and into his valve, leaving a disgusting taste and feeling that lingered in his fuel-deprived body.   
  
The experience was the only thing he could think of for the next cycles, before he fell into a restless recharge in a dark secluded corner on some dark forgotten street, his dreams filled with nightmares of the night's events.  
  
–  
  
All Drift wanted to do was to forget the incident, but soon – far too soon – he found himself in a similar situation, with a different mech, down a different run-down alley. Drift knew what was about to happen from the mech's lecherous smile and the lewd way he looked at Drift, and he knew he was in no state to fight off the attack. So Drift did the only thing he could think of, which might at least save his valve from a new assault.  
  
“10 shanix.” Drift's voice was unsteady, and the mech just stared at him dumbfounded for a moment. Drift tried again. “10 shanix for a blowjob.” He stared up at the mech, who after a moment grinned and released his spike.  
  
“Sure, little slut.”  
  
The mech's optics bored holes in Drift's head as he opened his mouth and reluctantly tried to fit the mech's spike inside his mouth, hesitantly starting to suck the foul spike jutting into his face. But his unwilling pace was nowhere near fast enough for the mech, and Drift suddenly felt a hand on the back of his head, before feeling himself getting shoved all the way onto the spike while the mech thrust back.  
  
The mech spewed a tirade of insults at him, the little slut, whore, piece of shit prostitute that was unable to even give a satisfactory blowjob; a slag-eater like Drift should be happy he even got to taste a wonderful spike such as his, the dirty third-rate pleasure-bot as he was.   
  
Drift gagged and was sure he would have vomited right there on the mech's spike had he had anything in his fuel tanks, and then he felt the mech overload into his mouth, his repugnant transfluid shooting down Drift's mouth and towards his tanks. The tanks grumbled happily at the 'fuel'.   
  
Drift was disgusted and felt sick again, but he had enough presence of mind to reach out his hand and ask for his payment. The mech sneered at him, and spit at his face, before giving him five shanix, stating that his inadequate blowjob was hardly even worth that. Drift stared at the shanix in his hand while the mech walked away. Well, he supposed it was better than nothing.   
  
–  
  
“Better than nothing” soon became a sort of mantra for Drift, something he would mentally repeat again and again as he tried to make himself comply as well as possible to his... Clients', he supposed, wishes. He became better at giving blowjobs quickly, his gag reflex slowly fading, and his technique improving with each 'encouraging' strike from his _lovely_ clientele.   
  
He had at first not wanted to whore out his valve as well as his mouth – transfluid down his throat could even be considered some kind of food for his starved fuel tanks, and he needed no real preparation in that end – but he was famished and desperate, and mechs like him had no room for pride.   
  
So that was how he spent his days, crawling around in the slums, getting better and better at zoning out and just letting the mech – or mechs – paying him do whatever they wanted. He could even occasionally afford proper energon.   
  
But he made mistakes. Sometimes the mistakes had worse outcomes than others. There were certain things that no one really ever bothered telling you; things you had to find out on your own. One of those things were that some areas – a corner, a street, maybe a block if there were several mechs – of any given city were someone else's _territory –_ not that there was any way of knowing if any given spot was claimed – and that trying to whore yourself out on someone else's turf would have dire consequences.   
  
Which was exactly how Drift managed to land himself in a situation where he found himself chained to a block, legs spread wide with mouth and valve held open by hooks, and the text “FREE TO USE” painted down his side.  
  
And who could say no to an offer of free interfacing? Very few mechs, discovered Drift, as mech after mech stopped to have some fun with him – sometimes a mech would do him from either side at once, sometimes only one part of him would be used at a time – only a very few walking past him without entertaining themselves with him first.  
  
But the ones who simply fragged him and then went on with their business were the best ones, really. Because for some, a simple frag was nowhere near enough. Oh no. It could be so much worse than that. And some mechs were far too eager to prove this.  
  
“What's this, hmm? A pretty little slut spread wide for me?” Drift had stopped listening to what exactly the mech using him said – slut, whore, harlot, trash, pleasurebot, valve-with-a-mouth, spikesucker, transfluid-disposal, there was apparently no end to the variation of names – but he could hardly help hearing what some mechs said.   
  
“So you like being humiliated? Do you like pain too?” No, and no, but it was not like Drift could talk at the moment.   
  
He found he could scream though, increasingly loudly as the mech standing by his aft inserted something with sharp barbs all over it into his valve. Drift was unsure if it was a spike or a toy, but it made no difference as the object rasped up his valve, causing precious energon to bleed and trickle down his lips. The mech was simultaneously tracing something sharp around Drift's valve-lips, occasionally cutting deep into the plating.   
  
After a while of the torute, Drift heard a grunt and a rush of transfluid signifying the mech overloading, the sticky liquid stinging Drift's sore valve, filling him up more than he wanted to think about. Then the mech was gone, and he was left sobbing, waiting for his next 'guest'.  
  
And there were more guests. So many more. Some would hit, some would claw at him, and none of them cared about what Drift felt when they used him like a cheap – or rather, _free_ – interfacing-toy. Some were kinder, moving more slowly and without _deliberately_ hurting him, but at the end of the day, it made little difference.  
  
But it was not before the end of the _night_ that he was let up again, his valve and mouth completely spent and abused, the lesson most certainly learnt. The mech whose territory he accidentally had offered himself on warned him to never return again – unless it was to be a _client,_ of course – and eventually let Drift limp away to whatever dark corner he was going to recharge in that night.   
  
–  
  
Drift learned other lessons too. It only took one instance of him accidentally opening both his panels instead of just his valve-cover to realize that doing this was... Highly discouraged. It was almost as if the mech was _insulted_ by the fact that Drift even _had_ a spike in the first place – a spike was a client's privilege, not something a walking valve like him should be allowed to have, according to the mech – and Drift daring to _display it_ was worse than spitting on the client's face. So Drift made sure to always only open his valve-panel.   
  
There were other things that he already knew though, as it was common knowledge in the slums, regardless of your 'profession'.   
  
–  
  
Despite all the things that happened to him, Drift never went to a medic. No one really ever did so in the district he called 'home.' It was less of a rule, and more of a natural result of their collective situation. Medics were expensive, and they tended to ask questions. No one wanted to answer the questions, and no one could afford the fees. So Drift never went to a medic with his injuries.  
  
This often led to having whatever bodypart he had managed to get damaged – by a client, most of the time – fixed or replaced by seedy merchants on the streets. Their goods were usually functional, too. More than half the time, which anyone would consider a good probability.   
  
Drift also eventually found himself a nice, cozy, place to stay during the nights. Having a roof over your head did miracles for keeping you out of trouble while you tried to recharge during whichever part of the day you ended up passing out.  
  
The building looked like it would fall apart any moment, it was filthy and covered with substances that Drift decided not to investigate, and it had neither heating nor light, but it was dry – most of the time – and it had a roof, so Drift was happy with the small corner he was allowed to rest in.   
  
The building had no official owner, and the mech who had claimed it as his own was reasonable enough to let Drift stay there for but a small fee; a blowjob whenever the mech felt like getting one. Which hardly could be considered bad at all, considering that Drift was only around for a relatively short while a day. And what was a few blowjobs to or from for something in his position, really?  
  
–  
  
“Hey, whore!”  
  
Drift was about to turn around and reply sweetly providing his prices, when he realized something disturbing. The mech talking to him had the unmistakable symbol of a _cop_ on his armour, and Drift had _turned around_ when the cop had called him a _whore_. Whoring was illegal. And Drift might be in a loooot of trouble.   
  
“Yeah, you.” The officer waved for him to come over.  
  
“What officer? I'm not a whore, I was just wondering why someone would call out something like that, it's not-” Drift's unconvincing babbling was cut short by the officer closing in on him, and trapping him against a wall, on arm at each side of Drift's head.  
  
“There's no use denying it, you filthy slut. Your kind can be spotted from miles away, and you look like the most loose valve-whore I have seen in ages.” The officer smiled grimly at Drift, who started faintly shaking.  
  
Drift opened his mouth and was about to come up with some new excuse, some protest, when the officer spoke again. “Oh, are you showing off your other tool? Tell you what: If you behave and give me an _astounding_ service, for free, of course, I will let you go without charges. How does that sound, slut-boy?”  
  
It sounded sour, but a free blowjob was much better than getting hauled in for prostitution. So Drift instinctively – skilfully – dropped down on his knees, opened his mouth, and presented it in front of the officer's crotchplate, which slid back to reveal an already hardened spike. Disgusting.  
  
Then Drift set to work, giving the most amazing blowjob he thought he was capable of. But of course that was not enough; cop was a talker, which was one of the most distracting clients in Drift's opinion. How was he supposed to do his best with some bastard talking all the time?  
  
“Yeah, take it deeper, you stupid whore. You better do a good job, or you'll end up in jail, and you know what happens to pretty whorebots like you in jail. Slag it, you little tramp, I bet you like this. I bet you get off on this, sucking spikes on the street, getting fragged by a hundred different mechs a week. I bet your valve is so loose from all the pounding you're getting that it wouldn't even be worth fragging you properly. You dirty little harlot, selling your body like that, you may as well be a pleasurebot. No, you're even worse than one, since they were built for it, and you are doing it for your own pleasure. Filthy whore.”   
  
Drift had heard it all a thousand times before, and he mostly just tuned out the incessant prattle, focusing instead on the spike in his mouth. All of it was incorrect – perhaps besides the comments about 'pretty' mechs like him and jails – but telling the cop so seemed like an extremely bad idea at the moment.  
  
Fortunately, his efforts paid off, and the cop soon pulled out to release his wretched transfluid all over Drift's face, leaving him with a warning that if he found him whoring around again, he would go straight to jail. Drift cleaned off his face, and spit out the taste of the cop onto the ground. He had _paying_ clients to look for and subsequently attend to.  
  
–  
  
Drugs are bad for you. Drift knew that; of course he did. But working the streets was cold and rough, and his jaw and valve never really stopped aching these day. A short escape was a blessing, and it was a blessing he was more than eager to accept when some mech offered him a syringe with some mysterious substance. For free.  
  
It was of course only free the first time, but when he returned and was told just how much another hit would cost him, it was too late, and he was all too prepared to give all the shanix he had for a return of that short period of bliss. He worked harder and more often to sustain his new-found paradise, which was his only escape from his terrible reality.   
  
He could easily suck all the spikes in the world without any complaints when his mind was gone, and his body presented no resistance during his absence. It was a win-win for everyone.   
  
It was not like he never tried to go clean again, but being aware and conscious during his work was so much worse when he could be blissfully unaware of what was said and done to him with just a single syringe.   
  
But of course the shanix he earned was never enough, and during his painful periods of awareness, he got reckless. He knew never to follow a customer to an unknown location, but there was money to earn. Money Drift desperately wanted, no, _needed_. And even if things went badly, he could wipe it all from his processor – at least temporarily – when he finally got a hold of his next hit.   
  
“Hey, sweetspark! You available at the moment?” Some grinning mech was looking Drift up and down. Drift knew he could hardly look all that good – he had stopped taking care of his body altogether in favour of feeding his addiction, with the exception of his _tools_ – but the mech was not after him for his body. Only his valve, or possibly mouth.  
  
Drift nodded, and named his prices.   
  
“So for 50 shanix I can frag you however I want?”  
  
Drift nodded again.   
  
“Hm, expensive. You better be good, sweetspark.”   
  
The mech then led Drift to a secluded building – abandoned and only inhabited by drifters and trash like Drift, as were most buildings in the area – up a flight of stairs and into a room. The mech locked the door after them. But before Drift had time to be concerned, a group of other mechs rose from the shadows.   
  
Drift back towards the door, instantly realizing what was going on. “Wait, the deal was for you only. I didn't agree to doing several mechs. This isn't-” Drift got cut off when he backed into the door, no longer having anywhere to go. He then turned to force the door up, only to be grabbed from behind by the mech that had led him there.  
  
“Ssh now sweetspark. We'll treat you well. And you'll get the agreed upon money.”  
  
“But this wasn't-”  
  
A fist connected with Drift's jaw, and the mech leaned close, hissing into his ear. “Do what we tell you to, or you'll be lucky if you even survive the night, much less get your money.”   
  
Drift nodded slowly, lowering his optics and awaiting further orders.   
  
“That's much better, sweetspark! Now drop down on all four, and open your panel.”  
  
Drift complied, and the mechs – five in total, as far as Drift could tell – all surrounded him. A series of clicks could be heard, and then he was surrounded by spikes. He barely had time to brace himself before one was shoved into his valve, painfully rasping against his unaroused insides.   
  
Then the thrusting started. Too big, too fast, pain filling his valve. Another spike was shoved into his mouth, forcing itself down his throat. The hands of the remaining mechs either went to their spikes, stroking leisurely, or to pinch his aft and cheeks.   
  
An especially painful shove into his valve made him whimper around the spike fragging his mouth.  
  
“Aw, look at the dirty fragger. He's enjoying this.” The mechs thrust harder, driving him into the floor with each motion. His valve eventually managed to produce a small amount of lubricant, making it easier for the spike assaulting him to slide in and out. It only made the mech go rougher.  
  
“Mm, you like that, don't you? Filthy slut.” A few marginally less painful thrusts followed the sentence, before both of the mechs overloaded into him. They removed their spikes, leaving behind a trail of tank-turning transfluid. Then the next two mechs positioned themselves.  
  
Drift could only cough out a fraction of the transfluid before a new spike was shoved down his throat, forcing him to swallow the previous mech's transfluid. The mixture of Drift's own lubricant – barely any – and transfluid – more that Drift wanted to think about – made it easier for the spike seizing his valve to enter.   
  
Drift suddenly heard his fans turn on, prompted by his straining systems. One of the mechs laughed. “ I bet this isn't enough for you, is it you loose whore? You want more, don't you?” Drift tried to shake his head, but that did nothing to stop the final mech from walking over to join the mech currently shoving his disgusting spike in and out of Drift's valve.  
  
“Finally, I wouldn't want you all to make this little whore go all loose before I got a turn.” The approaching mech grinned, and the other one moved a bit to the side, making room for him. Drift let out a protesting whine when he realized what was about to happen, the other mech lining his spike up beside the one already inside him.  
  
Drift's valve was nowhere near prepared – or aroused – enough to take two spikes, but the mechs showed no sign of caring about _that_. Drift more heard than felt himself sobbing as splintering pain came from his valve, the two spikes now pistoning in and out of him wrecking the already strained orifice.   
  
The rest of the event was just a dazed mess of pain and sticky transfluid being spilled over him, but eventually Drift found himself without anyone inside him, covered in transfluid and collapsed on the floor. One of the mechs leaned down to talk to him.  
  
“See, that wasn't all that bad now was it, sweetspark?” Drift begged to differ, but he remained silent, heaving on the floor. The mech then unlocked the door, and let Drift leave, with the promised 50 shanix in hand. Drift could hardly wait for his next hit.

 

–  
  
But it was not like Drift's life was all bad things. Sure, he was starving most of the time, and he needed an increasingly large doze of his drugs for them to have the same effect, and his left optic had given up on him a couple weeks ago, and... Drift lost his trail of thoughts. What was his point again? Oh, right. It was not all that bad.  
  
Drift was lying limply on a berth in some cheap hotel where no one asked questions, getting pounded by a spike far to big for his valve, but the wonderful blanket of oblivion from his drugs made him not care. The nice shuttle had even brought lube along so there would be no chafing. It was a very nice mech, thought Drift, as he was pinned down on the hard berth. Very nice. The things he whispered even included calling his valve tight instead of loose for once. Such a nice client.   
  
–  
  
Slow days were the worst. No business meant no shanix, and no money meant neither fuel nor drugs, which meant he was hungry and most probably experiencing withdrawal symptoms. The withdrawal was usually the worst part.   
  
Drift was staring with blank eyes at the mostly empty streets from where he was sitting, tired feet resting under him. He had spent several cylces looking for anyone willing to spare a little money for some committal-free interfacing, but he had found none. His fuel tanks complained, and the world looked odd. He considered just lying down and never moving again.  
  
Fortunately, there would always be someone horny if he waiting long enough, and this day was no exception. “Hey, you with the pretty lips, you open for business?” Drift sat there without moving for a few nano-kliks, before getting up to attend to the potential client. His knight in shining plating for the next dozen kliks or so. He looked nice enough, and Drift felt no particular need for complaining. 

 


End file.
